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Tuesday 23 July 2013

The quest for the perfect warm caffeinated beverage: Colin & Co

I have an addictive personality.

A couple of years ago I discovered a substance called caffeine. It revolutionised my life. In those days, I loathed the taste of coffee. The smell of coffee would make me gag. I soon discovered some caffeinated chocolates to the tune of one-and-a-half-espresso-shots in each tasty bitesized square and I was set. Until they stopped importing into Australia.

Roll forward a few years to today. I still do not like the taste of coffee, however the smell has taken on new connotations. The smell now has become linked with the feeling and I have begun to enjoy the scent of gently roasting beans because I know how buzzy I will feel having injested them. 

I have in the past had a very healthy double-shot-espresso-with-two-tablespoons-of-sugar-a-day caffeine addiction. Yes, I did write tablespoons. I brutally weaned myself out of this addiction using green tea, but continue to have phases where I require caffeine on a regular almost daily basis.

Now, you may have noticed dear reader that I am writing caffeine, not coffee. This is because my poison of choice is the mochachino.

The mocha.

A travesty to true coffee aficionados and a disappointment for hot chocolate drinkers,  the mocha combines two of my favourite things: chocolate and caffeine. 

Therefore, after this rather lengthy introduction, I have decided to review the humble mocha. There are four elements to the judging process: amount and consistency of froth, chocolateyness (aka can I taste any coffee?), temperature and cost. 



Colin & Co, Rundle Place. 

I had a sneaky solo coffee here on Saturday at about 4pm, getting close to winding down time. Here are my thinkings:

Froth: 2/5. Froth was tasty, not coffee tasting at all but too thin and not enough. I like a good inch of froth and a couple of millimetres just doesn't cut it, no matter how little it tastes like coffee. I should really rate froth out of 10 because it is my favourite part and also the cause for the most disappointment. I'd have a cup of froth if it contained the same amount of caffeine...

Chocolateyness: 4/5. Nicely chocolately, to the point where I wondered if there was any coffee in it at all. 

Temperature: 5/5. I need to be able to drink it immediately. No burning of my tongue. If my tongue is burnt it means you fail as a barista and you have BURNT THE MILK AND MADE BABY JESUS CRY WITH YOUR INATTENTIVENESS. Put you hands around the milk jug and when it becomes almost too hot to touch, fucking STOP. Deep breath.

Cost: 2/5. A reasonably pricey coffee at $3.90 especially with my lack of froth disappointment.



All in all an agreeable coffee, although the disappointing froth factor will make me think twice about returning. Overall 3/5. 

Friday 19 July 2013

Seafood Laksa - Kopi Tim

How to lose your appetite out of fear in 10 easy steps.

  1. Ask the company at the table for a recommendation. Ask again, confirm repeatedly.
  2. Order the seafood laksa.
  3. Devour entree.
  4. When said seafood laksa is produced, begin clearing the table to make room. Realisation begins to dawn as things are struggling to fit onto the table alongside your bowl.
  5. Pick up your spoon and chopsticks.
  6. Put down your spoon and chopsticks
  7. Gawk at your bowl and stall by taking photos.
  8. Pick up your spoon and chopsticks and swirl everything around. Consider where to begin.
  9. Put down your spoon and chop sticks. Look frightened.
  10. Chide your table company and blame them for doing this to you.
The saving grace that prevented me from tumbling into an abyss of terror?
"Excuse me, do you do doggy bags?"

Thank you God for supplying me with a take home container in my time of need.

***

After an extremely serious session of Badminton Wednesday, we decided on Kopi Tim for our reward. Located on Grote Street, but just on the other side of the main food section, it's glowing red signage greeted us cheerfully.


The entree was an utterly divine roti which I fell upon greedily and with haste. In hindsight, pacing myself would have been wise. Also at our table was four serves of coconut water, an interesting liquid that was rather enjoyable with floating fleshy chunks of coconut.

Then my seafood laksa arrived.

And it was enormous.

It was three times the size of my head.
 I was fearful. I was consumed by fear. How do I start? I plaintively wailed, gingerly picking up a piece of tofu with my chopsticks.

But it was delicious.

It was also just as delicious (and cost effective) the next day when I continued the laksaness for lunch.


Go on. Order the laksa. Quake in your boots. I dare you.

Sunday 14 July 2013

The Phantom of the Opera


Night time, flattens
Dulling each sensation
Darkness wilts and
stifles imagination...

I have a few things that I am obsessed with.
Food.
Bargain hunting.

And The Phantom of the Opera.

I don't know what it is about it that has me hooked. It is like the Andre Rieu of the theatre world*.

Real musicians don't listen to Andrew Lloyd-Webber.

The Phantom of the Opera is my guilty little pleasure. I know all of the words. And when I say all of the words, I mean all of the words.

I've lost count how many times I've seen the movie. I've seen two full scale productions - one in Melbourne and one in Adelaide. I will continue to see productions whenever they a) come to my city or b) I visit theirs. And now I can add an amateur production to the list.

For the first time, despite all of the times I have experienced The Phantom, I discovered something new.
Until this week, I had never known that The Phantom of the Opera was a comedy.

I was concerned the amatuer production would ruin it for me. What I didn't expect was it to be side splittingly hilarious, my shoulders heaving with barely contained laughter.

We were given the wrong seats and I didn't realise until we went to sit down. They had given my really good seats to someone else, so we chose to sit on the left of the stage in a group of three seats. It was as close as we could now get - and turned out to be a fantastic spot as I didn't disturb others.

Each time a main character was introduced, I had to stifle my fits of giggles. Carlotta. Raoul. The Phantom. Christine had be sold to me as "300 pounds"- I had to see this. This turned out to be a gross overestimation and she was very pretty and had an amazing voice and was not big in any sense of the word - except that Christine is meant to be a tiny little 16 year old ballerina so it was a little disconcerting seeing her towering over the other dancers.

The Phantom left me horribly confused. He had moments of utter magic, which were then overshadowed by Elvis-style inflections reminicient of his kareoke king title. The one thing that shouldn't have bothered me - and this is going to make me sound incredibly shallow - was that he was fat.

The Phantom of the Opera was fat.

This messed with my mind. I can't bare it. My dearest readers, in confidence I tell you this, but I may have on occasion had a dream about said Phantom (a la Gerald Butler).

Never again. Ruined.

Now all I will see is straining pant buttons as The Phantom rubs himself sensuously while singing What raging fire will flood the soul, what rich desire unlocks its doors, what sweet seduction lies before us?

In truth, I found him and Christine to be really rather good and they had a very pleasing chemistry.

Raoul, on the other hand...

Every time he took the stage, I giggled. I'm sorry. But this actor was clearly only chosen on account of his boyish good looks. Consistently flat and out of tune and a strange I'm here, look at me possessiveness when he took the stage and a horrible lack of chemistry made me long for Christine to run away with The Phantom (which I kind of want her to do anyway, but...).


I'm so glad I went. My dearest Phantom of the Opera wasn't ruined, but in actual fact taken to brand new dizzying heights.

In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came...


*Note: Andre Rieu is not well respected the music world. He brings "classical" music to the bogan masses and makes uncultured people feel cultured because he is playing music on a - god forbid - violin. He plays Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on a violin with a firework display and makes a shit tonne of money because it makes people feel high class. We can't be friends if you like Andrew Reiu.

Friday 12 July 2013

Wagyu Bangers and Mash - The Stag


Steak.

Steak steak steak. Steak steak steak steak. Steak. Steak steak steaksteaksteaksteaksteak!

On Badminton Wednesday, I felt like steak.

Had a hankering for the ol' red meat.

All day. Since 9.30 in the AM.

"Steak?" I would ask passersby hopefully.
"Steak," they would respond in the affirmative, and I was content.

We went to Adelaide's "worst vegetarian restaurant", The Stag. Upon reaching The Stag, my appetitive wasn't up to its usual standard (enormous, for those who may be thus unaware). This was largely in part to the two Hungry Jack's mini burgers I had succumbed to before badminton. As an aside - they were delicious and amazing and mustardy and fantasmic and then I felt really nauseous for about an hour and a half because my body has become unused to eating junk food. I'm still fantasising about those tasty bundles of processed unhealthiness. 

Alongside my diminished appetite, I had also forgotten that The Stag is a little bit pricey and the combined lack of hunger and lack of funds propelled my choice. Therefore, I forewent the steak per-say, and settled on the Wagyu Bangers and Mash.

An odd choice, perhaps, but I have had bangers and mash so infrequently in my life and it was a solid wintery meal for a very wintery night and it felt like a comfortable choice.


My only gripe was the delay in delivering my meal; this bordered on embarrassing and left me wondering if I had been forgotten. It arrived eventually though and I wasn't disappointed. Such a simple meal with simple flavours. No complications. Being unable to mash potato myself (welcome to Lumpyville, population: me), I revelled in the buttery-garlicy-spinachy-potatoey goodness. Normally a kitchen debacle when attempted by yours truly, the sausages at The Stag were tender and juicy and topped with a spicy tomato relish for an added zing.

The Stag, you can bang my mash any day.

Thursday 11 July 2013

The Comedy of Errors - A State Theatre Company production



Who knew that a night on the Shakespeare train would be so much fun?

When putting around the call to see a play, namely a Shakespeare play, I was pleasantly surprised at the enthusiastic uptake from my friends. How delightfully cultured! A few minutes later, 6 balcony tickets had been purchased all in row (and a pass to the Red Carpet after party) and there was no backing out now!

While the rest of Adelaide was at the Pink concert, we raucously descended upon the Duncan Playhouse (after eating a delicious, if enormous, meal from River Café) and "excuse me"d and "sorry"d our way to our seats right in the middle up the top.


We had a perfect, unhindered middle view of the stage for The Comedy of Errors by the State Theatre Company, a story of mistaken identity featuring two sets of identical twins. The set comprised a series of doors and the situation had been modernised. Despite the old-timey iambic pentameter, this modernisation worked perfectly and rendered the play relatable. Especially the scene where the ladies had been wandering around the city all evening and had resorted to carrying their high-heels to save their battered feet...

I belly laughed on more than one occasion and was able to follow remarkably well. The words themselves were not necessarily funny but the emotions, actions and tone of the actors brought the impossible situations to life.

At the conclusion of the show, we were led to the deepest darkest bowels of the theatre and emerged into a warehouse type room; complete with DJ, free wine and free food.

As the intellectuals we are, we discussed the play, analysing the themes, characters and situations as portrayed for a modern audience.

Not really. We got drunk and danced!


Monday 8 July 2013

Nineteen Eighty-Four - George Orwell



BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU

"I'm about to read Nineteen Eighty-Four," I would say. Those who hadn't read it would reply "What's that about?" Those who had read it all had the same reaction.
A sort of a shudder, a bit of a shrug, and a low "Oooooh."

Approaching a book knowing it is not going to be a joyful ride, knowing it will only end unhappily and knowing that you will be left feeling deflated is an interesting sensation.

To even begin, you require resolution and strength and then, as the end approaches, you need all the willpower you can muster to continue. Because you know. You know that all those hopeful fantasies you are harbouring will not come true...


I read it greedily but when the covers were closed and the book tight shut, I had to brace myself for the onslaught afresh. My mind raced with all the possibilities - I was on edge - I simply had to keep reading to know if any of my suspicions or hopes were close.

The energy consumed through trying to guess the end left me feeling empty once I reached it. But I think emptiness is what you are supposed to feel. Flat. Pancake-y.

"The comparisons with today's government are uncanny," I was told. It is true. Certain phrases and situations would case me to start and look up at the corners of my room for hidden cameras while my mind raced wildly to the life I am living and the current state of the world.

I had only read one third of the book before the bleak dreams began. Thoughtcrime. Inability to say what I want. Inability to think what I want. Hidden emotions. War. Big Brother. "This book is fucking me up more than I expected," I would say to anyone who would listen, "what am I going to be like by the time I reach the end?"

Nothing happened.
Emptiness happened.

Here's wishing George Orwell a happy birthday. I know what I'm going to be doing this weekend. All the crime. Sexcrime. Thoughtcrime.

Just in case it is outlawed tomorrow...

Friday 5 July 2013

Nutella Kronut - Milkaholic

What do you get when a croissant and a donut love each other very much?

This.



This is a Kronut.

I ate in almost total silence, absorbed, focussed. My comrades looked up at me in surprise at the conclusion of my meal (and I'm certain there was a little bit of awe mixed in there too), that I had polished my dessert off so steadily, without pause or fuss, while they continued to enjoy theirs.

My first few mouthfuls however, left me exclaiming "Yes! It is like a croissant, wait, no it's more like a donut! Wait! No, a croissant...donut?"

I have little else to say about the Kronut from Milkaholic except it was delicious and topped with chocolate chocolate chip icecream and covered in chocolate nutella sauce and you should have one.

Now.


Thursday 4 July 2013

The Mixed Fish - Paul's on the Parade

 
"We do not have any butterfish," proclaimed our haughty waiter.
There was no butterfish on the menu.
"Oh. Then we do not have any hake."
There was no hake on the menu, either.
Badminton's dinner this week saw us abandoning our original idea of schnitzels for food of the piscine variety. 

We traipsed into Paul's Fish Cafe on the Parade in our trendy sportswear and made our way to a table. While I made a quick exit to the little girl's room, it was decided by the remaining party that tonight's fish experience was to be an educational one. Prepare to be educated.

I shall digress for a moment to introduce my Badminton buddies; namely the ones who attended dinner on this fine evening. On my right at the "window seat" sat Jason, purveyor of a fine curry; opposite sat Thu, food connoisseur; and to the right sat Pamela, the daughter of a chef. We are a fine company of experts, if one includes my outstanding ability to eat anything and, in most cases, everything.

We decided to order two serves of the mixed fish; 3 pieces of fish in each serve. This equals 6 pieces of fish. There were 5 different fish available on the menu, therefore one piece of fish had to be repeated twice to equate to 6. 

I just used maths. Have I lost anyone? No? I shall continue.

Unfortunately, this concept was a little too hard for our self-important waiter to grasp.

"Yes but what fish do you want with your mixed fish?"
"We'd like one serve of each, with two of the garfish."
"Yes, but what fish do you want with your mixed fish?"

After some time and some careful pointing to the menu, and gently reminding the waiter that he sold neither butterfish or hake, our order was sorted. 

2 serves of the mixed fish with:
One piece of flathead
One piece of baramundi
One piece of King George whiting
One piece of snapper
Two pieces of garfish

Thus, in the name of science, we could compare the different kinds of fish and how their fishiness differentiated.

I have no idea what fish is what.

Promptly forgetting the varieties of each fish as we were told them, we carefully divided each piece into four. We ate together, examining the texture and the fishiness of each fish, comparing and contrasting as the experts we are.

At the conclusion of our meal, we decided that there are two types of fish. 

Baramundi, and everything else.

     "Well done everybody!" Pamela declared, "We can taste baramundi!"
     "I think I can pick garfish!" piped up Thu.
     Pamela looked knowingly across the table.

     "Except Thu. She's got garfish covered."